1.9.09

The fabulous Jenn reminded me of one of my favorite stories to tell when people start talking about late nights and fast food.

Way back during the summer after eleventh grade (that makes it 1994 for those who want to make me feel old), I had a brief fling with a friend's older brother. Only, he had an on-again-off-again girlfriend and I had an always-on boyfriend. And the fling was really just lots of lingering looks and a few stolen kisses. But that's not the point.

He had a car and I needed a ride. So I called him around 2 am one night and asked him to drive me and another friend about 45 minutes away. He said he would if he could stay and, of course, I said he could. So he picked us up around 2:30 am. Our first stop was the 24 hour Hardees (because why wouldn't we go to Hardees in the middle of the night?).

Everything was going well until we left the building to get back to the car. A short 10-yard walk turned into my worst nightmare. I felt something whiz past my shoulder and then heard a huge popping sound. About that time, my guy yelled "Get down!" and my friend and I collapsed like twin piles of bricks. Right in the middle of the nasty parking lot.

From three parking spots down, a large man was firing his gun past us at another man at the other end of the lot. That man was shooting back.

We were in the middle of a damn shoot out. Right in the Hardees parking lot. How was I going to explain it to my mama? What if I died? (Yes, I had those thoughts in that order.)

After three or four shots both ways, the men got into their respective vehicles and pealed away. My friend and I tripped over ourselves trying to get up and back into the car. But my guy? That crazy fool was standing with his hands on his hips waiting on the cops. Because he wanted to give his statement. To the police.

Obviously he hadn't seen gang or mob movies. You don't squeal. You didn't see anything. You put your head down and you keep moving. Besides, what would you say? The asphalt was black. There were old cigarette butts and wrappers and dried up gum. The men were ... men, we think. And they drove ... cars, maybe?

My disbelief and the pointless five minutes spent trying to convince him to leave sealed the deal for me. That was not the guy for me. If you want to be a goody two shoes, do it for old ladies crossing the road, not thugs who shoot at each other in fast food parking lots.

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comments:

I am a '95 grad, too! We can feel old together. :) I don't have any exciting stories other than locking my keys in my car at a gas station in the middle of the night when the engine was running. I was in college and my cousin was in town and we were out for the night. Ended up having a truckload of firemen come to our rescue because the engine was running at the gas station and could have been dangerous. My cousin said that made her trip and never stopped talking about our firemen! :) The devious part of me wanted to do it again, but the good girl never did!